


Chasing Cars

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [28]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's fist official night on the job proves interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Cars

**Author's Note:**

> Pre A Perfect Circle in the 'verse.
> 
> Title courtesy of Snow Patrol.
> 
> Reading this, I realize how much I changed the flow of this series as time went on. I don't super care for the writing here, but this chapter is one of the bigger events in Arthur and Lance's relationship development. I also know nothing about police action, as you can tell here. *laughs*
> 
> I appreciate all the reading and kudos and I hope y'all are enjoying this.

Arthur’s hands rested on his gunbelt; the uniform felt awkward and stiff. His cap he had pushed to the back of his head – and had promptly forgot he was wearing it, until he bent over to pick up a dropped napkin and it fell forward onto the ground.  
  
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself, and slapped the thing back on. Throwing away the trash, he sighed as his eyes roved over the grounds of the museum. The party was set up outside, a large tent holding the food and places for the attendees to sit. A hastily erected gazebo held the band, and the party staff had layed a portible dance floor on the grass, which was currently being flattened by the formally attired people whirling around over it.  
  
Arthur possessed more specialty weapons permits than any cadet that had graduated from the academy since his father’s days, and here he was on his first assignment – guarding rich people at a donor’s ball at the Museum of Natural History.  
  
He was glad the department was using him to his full potential.  
  
He supposed he really shouldn’t complain; he could have gotten an assigment directing traffic or picking up drug crazed kids on the club strip.  He was extremely glad he wasn’t working the club job. Especially since Perfect Circle was part of that area.  
  
Shaking his head, he chided himself for feeling underused, and just thanked his lucky stars he had a job that he could finally truly be happy about. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the newspaper – but this way he was using his degree, and he was more than confident his life with the police department would be one he’d be proud to remember when he was old.  
  
He only wished his private life was as stable.  
  
Not wanting to think about that, he began to walk again, circulating through the edges of the crowd, eyeing everyone and making sure his fellow policemen were doing all right. As he passed Myers, the redhead rolled his eyes at Arthur and mimed snoring. Arthur smiled and kept on; he was slightly bored as well, but there was nothing they could do about it.  
  
He stopped when he reached the valet area, standing at ease with his hands clasped behind his back. He had only worn his uniform on duty a few times, and it wasn’t quite “broken in” yet. The wool was starched and crisp and his pants were just a tad too creased. Examining his shoes, he didn’t look up when he started to move again, eyes on the shiny black leather that seemed to reflect the sky a bit too well.  
  
The body of the person he crashed into was lean and a bit shorter than he was; both of them cursed and tried to rebound from the collision quickly. Arthur almost tripped over his own feet while he backpeddled, his hand going to his gun to make sure it hadn’t moved from its holster.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he spouted at the same time the man he had run into griped, “Watch where you’re going, asshole.”  
  
They both looked at each other, and Arthur was sure his face mirrored the expression the person in front of him wore.  
  
“Shit, Lance, sorry,” was all Arthur could come up with. His mouth flopped and he felt all legs and arms; he suddenly couldn’t seem to control his body. His clothing felt silly and tight and too dark and crispy, and he reached up to whip the policeman’s cap off his head.  Tucking it under his arm, he stuck out his other hand, as if to shake Lancelot’s. The younger man ignored it, and walked around Arthur, staring at him.

  
When Lancelot didn’t respond except to raise one eyebrow as he came around to face Arthur again, Arthur’s ire got the better of him. He stuck his cap back on, and cocked his own eyebrow. “You’ve seen me in a uniform before.”  
  
“Only once or twice,” Lance answered. His tone was cool and impersonal. “It looks strange.”  
  
“Great,” Arthur said dryly. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Lancelot was dressed like most of the men at the party – black trousers and a dark shirt, his only concession to difference being his silver tie. Arthur thought he looked his usual beautiful self – but the bags under his eyes were new.  
  
“I’m here with Roland,” Lance sighed, rubbing his mouth with his fingers. Arthur’s eyes surreptitiously followed the motion, only tearing his gaze away from Lancelot’s lips when the other man spoke again.  
  
“You know him and his donor parties. Gotta show his face at all of them. Keeps up the façade of respectability.” Lancelot smirked, and shoved his hands in his pockets, laughter dying quickly. “I thought you’d be doing something glamorous for the cops. Considering you’re a Castus and all.”  
  
Arthur frowned and tried not to snap a reply. “I’m doing the same thing all newbies do. Paying my dues.”  
  
“You’re just lucky they didn’t send you down to the strip or something,” Lance commented, not knowing he was practically reading Arthur’s mind with the comment. “God forbid you’d have to go into the Circle and make sure people were behaving.”  
  
Choosing not to rise to the bait, Arthur listened briefly as the radio mic in his ear squawked, then turned his attention back to Lancelot, who was looking around. “These things are so boring,” he said, sounding overdramatic. “Dance with a few drunk housewives, eat a few snacks, down a few martinis, then allow said housewives a grope. You know, the typical fundraiser.” He winked at Arthur, and then began his head swiveling again.  
  
Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. Instead of lashing out, he crossed his arms, pinching the inside of his bicep. “Why don’t you get to it, then? I’d hate to keep you from your fun.”  
  
Lancelot laughed, a bright, irritating sound that made Arthur want to smack the other man. “You want to join in?”  
  
As Arthur was opening his mouth to retort, several sharp noises echoed through the area in quick succession. Both men dropped into a squat on instinct; Arthur’s radio went crazy with voices. He winced, clapping his hand over his ear until the jumble of sound was silenced by the short instructions from their commanding officer.  
  
“The fuck, Arthur?” Lancelot hissed, staying low as he crab-walked over to where Arthur was crouched. Radioing in his location and agreement to his part in the action, Arthur stood, pulling Lance with him.  
  
“Some idiot kids have apparently decided they want the fundraising to be for them,” Arthur answered, smiling roughly. His heart was hammering hard in his chest, and his forehead had broken out in a cold sweat. He drew Excalibur (he wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought he was actually going to use his father’s gun in action), checking to make sure it was loaded, and met Lancelot’s eyes.  
  
“Where are you going?” Lance questioned. His face had gone pale, the skin shining against the blackness of his shirt. He looked as if he were about to be sick, which wasn’t a look Arthur had seen him wear often.  
  
“To do my job,” Arthur answered, turning to go. Now that the moment had come, he found his emotions were shutting down – his body felt liquid and mobile, and his hands were cool and steady on his father’s weapon. It was disconcerting – but now wasn’t the time to analyze it. His ability to turn feelings off when being professional was one of the reasons he’d chosen to be a cop in the first place.  
  
A few more bangs, but this time Arthur and Lance merely ducked now that they knew the source of the noise wasn’t near to them.  
  
“Your job? Arthur – those kids are probably high. You know how stupid people can get when they’re high,” Lance said, following Arthur as he rapidly turned to go where his captain had told him to go. When Arthur realized Lance was trailing him, he spun around and fisted his free hand in Lance’s shirt.  
  
“Do NOT follow me. I know what I’m doing – I won’t get hurt. You’re a civilian. Stay out of it, Lance. Do you hear me?” He was suddenly having a hard time breathing – his pulse was speeding again, and his eyes were boring into Lance’s. His hand rose from the other man’s shirt and clutched at Lance's face, fingers cupping his cheek unconsciously. “Do you hear me?” he repeated, more quietly, but just as seriously.  
  
“Arthur,” Lance replied faintly, his gaze softening, his body drifting slowly towards Arthur’s like a small boat pulled by tide. “Don’t do this.” His attitude of earlier was replaced by genuine fear and concern. His hand wrapped around Arthur’s forearm, tightly.  
  
“Let go, Lance. Just find Roland. You’ll be alright.” Arthur managed to pry Lancelot’s fingers off his arm, not really wanting to, and turned and sprinted away before his captain could radio in to ask him where he was.  
  
“Arthur! Shit,” Lance cursed after the retreating figure. He gnawed his lower lip. Another gunshot; he jumped and began moving again.  
  
Roland would know what to do – he had enough bodyguards to take down a small army. If anyone could protect Arthur, they could.  
  
Not like he’d tell Roland that.  
  
*  
  
The last ambulance was pulling away, the moon high in the sky, and Arthur sat on a bench, officially released from duty. He sighed and removed his hated cap, setting it next to him. Scrubbing at his face, he winced when he accidentally rubbed one of the bruises he had received from an overzealous Myers and his overreacting, flailing arms.  
  
Lance had been right, the kids had been high, and hard to control. Luckily, they were also stupid and made the wrong decisions, so they were easy to disarm. Of course a few of the party attendees had been dramatic and ran screaming pell mell through the area, resulting in a few minor (thank God) bullet wounds. One man had to be taken to the hospital for stitches, but mostly everyone was alright.  
  
Arthur wondered if Lancelot had been able to find his father, then dismissed the thought since he hadn’t seen either one of them since the fracas had started.  
  
“Castus,” his radio crackled.  
  
“Captain,” he said, instantly alert.  
  
“There’s a Roland Benoit asking for you over by the gazebo.”  
  
 _Fuck._  “On my way, sir.”  
  
Arthur stood, replacing his hat, and walked the short distance to the gazebo, where the Captain and Lancelot’s father stood. Roland looked as resplendant as ever in his dark clothing and full length wool coat.  
  
“Castus,” Captain Sharpe started, with no preamble the way he always did. “Mr. Benoit here wanted to thank you personally for what you did tonight.”  
  
Arthur refrained from making a confused face, and merely nodded to Lancelot’s father. “Mr. Benoit," he said, not able to control the bewilderment in his voice. “Are you hur-"  
  
“Arthur,” the other man said, the usual chillyness in his tone still there, but covered by a false warmth that made Arthur feel slightly naseuous. “I saw you knock over that boy that was waving his gun in Mrs. Moore’s face. He could have shot you. I see you’ve got a nasty bump on your head as it is. Captain,” Benoit said, “did he have that looked at?”  
  
“All of my officers have been seen to, sir, don’t worry,” Captain Sharpe replied; Arthur noticed a bit of defensiveness in his words. He hoped he wouldn’t catch hell for Roland’s questions.  
  
“Excellent. Well, you can leave, Arthur. I’m sure you want to get home and rest. I just wanted you to know I personally appreciate what you did.”  
  
Captain Sharpe bristled at that; Arthur looked to him and the man jerked his chin toward the parking lot. “You’re relieved, Castus, I told you. Go home.”  
  
Arthur scrambled to leave the two men alone. He didn’t relish the thought of the conversation he was going to have to have with Sharpe in the morning. Fucking Roland Benoit. Trust him to cause more trouble for Arthur.  And why in the hell would he even bother?  Arthur knew easily how Lance's father felt about him.  And how he felt about his son.  
  
Then a thought came to Arthur that he didn’t want to have – but it was there just the same, even though he tried to distract himself by briskly walking back towards the small woody area that he had to go through to get to his car.  
  
Roland Benoit attending a fundraiser, despite the fact that Lance tried to make it sound like he went all the time. Roland making sure he was in plain sight when kids that were high on the drug his son's club sold, despite his assurances it didn’t, attacking a gathering of rich patrons sure to have things worth stealing.  
  
Roland Benoit acknowledging Arthur’s presence at the fiasco, in spite of whom Arthur’s father was.  
  
Making sure his son Lancelot was seen, speaking to a police officer, in a public place at the same time said robbery was to happen.  
  
“Fuck!” Arthur gritted, his stride quick and stiff, the dark trees skeletal and wiry against the moon drenched sky. “Motherfucker.”  
  
"Angry about something?" Lance’s voice came from behind a tree. He stepped into Arthur’s path. Smiling easily, he cocked a hip and rested his hand on it.  Arthur kept walking, his shoulder hitting Lance’s hard as he passed. “Right now is not the time, Lance.”  
  
Lancelot grumbled and rubbed at his shoulder, and then followed Arthur. “That hurt. And why are you pissed at me? I didn’t do anything to you.”  
  
Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, and turned. “You didn’t do anything to me?” he said, his voice low and dangerous, advancing on Lance, who backed up until his spine hit a tree. A few leaves were shaken loose and fell onto his head unnoticed.  
  
“Your father is ridiculous," he continued, anger firing his nerves and ripping through his gut.  “And you tried to warn me. ‘Those kids are probably high.’ ‘Don’t do this.’ What was actually supposed to happen? Is Roland breaking in new recruits? Or was he just having fun?”  
  
“Why would you say that? I think you’re getting paranoid, Arthur,” Lance laughed, but the sound was a little too brittle.   
  
“Paranoid? How dare – Lance. Jesus Christ. You can’t leave anything alone, can you? We’re not together, you don’t owe me anything, and here you are, at your father’s beck and call at an event you probably knew I’d be working. Can’t you just let it go? Are you trying to drive me insane?”  
  
Arthur’s ranting gradually faded into nothing, his eyes swimming with anger, his body shaking. His nose was an inch from Lancelot’s, and he was puffing like a train.   
  
“Fuck,” he spat, and turned away. Lance grabbed his arm and twisted him around, so he hit the tree this time. He opened his mouth to respond, but Lancelot’s lips were suddenly covering his.  
  
Shoving him back, their mouths separated with a popping sound that would have been comical in any other situation. Arthur stared at Lancelot in shock.  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
Arthur wiped his lips with the back of his hand, his body bending so he was hunched over. “Don’t, Lance. Don’t fucking touch me.  Not now.”  
  
"Fuck."  Lance's face was an open book; Arthur shook his head and wondering if God was trying somehow to punish him with this man.  "Fuck, Arthur. I did try to warn you. The shit that happened – should have been a lot more serious. Nothing happened the way it was supposed to. Roland is not pleased. Believe me, I can tell,” Lance snapped, stepped up to Arthur. He grabbed Arthur’s uniform shirt in his fingers, jerking on it. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”  
  
“Yeah?” Arthur said, growling. “Were you supposed to 'take care of me'?” He laughed darkly at the look on Lance’s face. “Well, shit. Daddy’s got someone doing stuff he doesn’t really want to, huh? Let go of my shirt.”  He tore at Lancelot’s hand, but the other man refused to budge, actually raising his other hand to wrap it in Arthur’s shirt as well.  
  
“Don’t make me answer that,” Lancelot said bleakly. “Please, Arthur, don’t.”  
  
They both froze, the tree at Arthur's back scratching and rough.  “What?” Arthur asked quietly. Lancelot sighed and dropped his hands out of Arthur’s uniform. “Nothing,” he shrugged. Arthur cocked an eyebrow.  
  
“Nothing. I guess that’s as good a word as any,” Arthur said, feeling ice on his tongue. “If you’ll let me, Mr. Benoit, I need to go home.”  He tried to move around Lancelot, but the younger man slapped his hands on Arthur’s left arm, spinning him around so his face hit the rough bark of the tree.  
  
“What are you doing?” he struggled against Lancelot’s grip, skin beginning to tear from the wood on his cheek. “Let me up, you dick.”  
  
All the breath was knocked out of him as Lance’s body hit his, the other man’s chest pressing against Arthur’s back. Arthur could feel the hot shape of suprisingly hard flesh that pushed against his buttocks.  Lancelot’s hands struck the bark on either side of Arthur’s waist, effectively pinning him to the tree. Arthur kicked at Lance's shin and tried halfheartedly to break the hold, but aside from grunting in pain, Lance didn’t move.  
  
“Stop struggling,” he whispered in Arthur’s ear. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”  
  
Arthur breathed harshly against the tree trunk, his face grinding into the bark. “Then what the fuck are you doing?” He was loathe to admit his body was responding to the proximity of Lancelot’s; his own cock was pressing painfully against the rough wood in front of him.  He could have easily pushed the smaller man away, but this was so unlike Lance…he cursed silently and squeezed his eyes shut.  He _hated_ that he wanted to know what would - what could - happen.  It had been too long.    
  
“I just want...,” came the hesitant words. “Arthur, please."  The words were tiny and inconsequential and Arthur could feel his temples throbbing in time with his aching heart.  He hated being confused – and this was twice in one night. His eyebrows drew together and he turned his face so he could see Lance out of the corner of his eye. “Why? Lance – what’s going on with you?”  
  
Lance showed a flash of irritation, his knee digging into Arthur’s thigh. “Nothing, Arthur. Just shut up, please.” He reached around and rubbed long, slow fingers against Arthur’s arousal, which shut him up quickly.  
  
“Shit,” Arthur hissed out, grinding his hips against Lancelot’s hand. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”  
  
“You want me to stop?” Lancelot asked, stilling his fingers. Arthur shook his head almost frantically. Despite all that they’d been through, his feelings for Lance would never change. Never. He’d always love the other man. He’d always be reduced to a puddle of mush with one touch. He’d always allow Lance to do whatever he pleased to him. He was a slave to the other man.  
  
Those facts, however, didn’t mean it didn’t make him angry. “Asshole,” he got out through a clamped jaw. “Fuck _you_ , Lance.”  
  
Lance bit Arthur’s earlobe, and not softly. “Shut UP.”  
  
This time Arthur complied.  
  
His eyes slid shut, and he moved against the fingers that touched him exactly how he liked it. He could feel Lancelot’s erection pressing against his ass, the other man thrusting against Arthur’s fabric covered body as if they weren’t dressed.  
  
“Jesus,” he whispered when Lancelot’s fingers unzipped his uniform pants, allowing Lance’s hand to slip inside Arthur’s boxers and wrap around his flesh.  
  
Nothing else was vocalized save for soft grunts and wheezing breaths; their bodies moved in rhythm, Arthur’s cheek scratching against the bark, a warm trickle of blood dripping down his face. Lancelot’s fingers played across the head of his cock, and then shifted to tickle the flesh underneath.   
  
A soft pinch to his balls, nails scoring the delicate skin there. Arthur tried to suck in a moan, biting his lower lip as he began to see stars – the nails that had been gently scraping at his balls touched his stiff flesh and he came, shouting in spite of his mind telling him not to.  
  
He felt Lancelot shudder and groan, a rush of wet heat between them even though they were both still clothed.  
  
The younger man’s head fell hard against Arthur’s back, and the hand that had been braced against the bark moved shakily to lay on Arthur’s belly.  Arthur’s cock was still wrapped in Lancelot’s fingers; Arthur found he was still moving his hips jerkily, his body still craving the all too familiar touch.  
  
An elbow to Lance’s gut, and Lance sprawled weakly away from Arthur, falling to his knees in the dirt.  
  
Arthur turned, panting. He shoved his cock back in his uniform pants with some difficulty, zipping up with trembling hands.  He allowed his legs to fold as well, sitting hard on the ground.  
  
Lancelot began to laugh, a strange sound. Arthur watched him as it built to a full blown guffaw, his own mouth disobeying him by cracking a smile.  
  
Soon they were both roaring and crying, Arthur bent over, head on his knees, Lance cradling his head in his hands.  
  
“Y-you have leaves in your hair,” Arthur said at last, wiping his eyes. He grinned again as Lance met his gaze.  
  
“Your face is bleeding,” Lance pointed out helpfully. “And you have come on your shoe.”  
  
That set them off again, and they laughed for several minutes without speaking.  
  
Finally Arthur felt able to stand, and he did so after wiping his boots off with leaves. “Yuck,” he smiled quietly. Lance joined him after a moment, making a face.  
  
“I need to go change,” Lance admitted with a wry expression. His eyes became hooded as he sobered up. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he cocked his head and looked at Arthur. “Sorry about the scratches,” he sighed. Arthur just shook his head.  
  
“It’s alright. I’ve got bruises from earlier to distract from them.”  
  
With that comment, the feeling in the air around them rapidly changed to one of awkwardness and strained politeness.  
  
“I really have to go,” Arthur said. He took a few steps in the direction of the parking lot, then faced Lance. “What –”  
  
Lance shook his head vehemently. “No.”  
  
Arthur’s mouth snapped shut, his teeth nicking the inside of his cheek. He rubbed at his face and tasted the coppery tang of blood.  He half turned but Lance spoke again.  
  
“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”  
  
Arthur didn’t reply, merely nodding his head. There was more than one answer for that statement, and he was too tired to try and find the appropriate one.  
  
“Go,” Lance added, gesturing with the hand that had been touching Arthur moments ago. Arthur’s eyes followed it, the long fingers and pale skin too beautiful and too familiar to be focused on for long. He forced himself to look at the ground.  
  
He didn’t move until he heard Lance shuffle off through the leaves, crunching away toward the gazebo and his waiting father.  
  
He looked up, and when he knew he was alone again, he continued his short trek to his car.  Arriving at the lot, he unlocked the doors and slid inside, breathing shakily. The one light still on shone directly into his window, and he lowered his head to the steering wheel, his hands gripping at ten and two just like they always did.  
  
He didn’t start the engine until he felt the flow of hot tears mix with the blood still trickling sluggishly from the cuts on his cheek.  
  
He tore out of the parking lot, burning rubber and almost smashing two squirrels that were unlucky enough to try and run in front of his tires. They chittered angrily after him, springing like tennis balls up into the trees as he drove past.  
  
Looking down at his hip, he stared briefly at the holstered Excalibur, wondering what his father would think of him carrying it.  Forcibly pushing any thoughts out of his mind, he concentrated on the road, making it home just as the morning California sun poked its head over the horizon.  
  
He stood in his driveway for a moment, allowing the rays to beat down on him, trying to stare into the light once, hoping to scald the night from his memory.  Once inside, he didn’t bother to turn on any lights. He undressed quickly, throwing his soiled uniform into the corner of the room.   
  
Something scratched at him, and as he pulled his boxers off, a pine needle floated to the floor. He stared at it askance, then bent over and picked it up.  
  
Moving to his dresser, he opened the cherry wood box that sat on it, and placed the needle inside, almost reverently. It joined a few other small things he didn’t want to look at.  
  
He lay down, sprawling out like he normally did, but after a few minutes of tossing, he curled in on himself, a small pillow tucked in his arms. He slept finally, smelling of musky wood and sex.  
  
He found he didn’t care.


End file.
